


semantics, mostly

by pixiepuff (colourmecrunchy)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (dear chair i'm so sorry), (i'll let myself out), (poor chair), Dorian's chair, M/M, also what are real legit tags, and i don't need this, and then this volatile vomit word extravaganza just HAPPENED, apparently not, because i just started dragon age inquisition, besotted!dorian, but MAKER HELP ME because, despite knowing how to pace my writing now, frisky!inquisitor, i just wanted to get these two jerks out of my system, i know how to control the endless spew of words words words to be a -serious author, mentions of other inquisition members, my FIRST dragon age game, not 10k of FEELINGS, okay:, semi-public sexy times, this was supposed to be a sexy-times one shot, uhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 13:42:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14021496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourmecrunchy/pseuds/pixiepuff
Summary: He also really hated people prematurely dying in general, and people dirtily scheming in general, and people eating garlic before bed in general, but what he hated more than anything else was Dorian existing-conjuring-radiatingso far away from his own quarters. In general.Again, if not for this cup of cider and an early on-set of his Dorian-influenced epidemic, he might have been playing nice tonight. That he had no intention of doing so became clear to him the moment he squished himself in Dorian's chair while the chair was occupied.By Dorian.OR: Someone had to set a bad example of having no restraint, and it might as well be him.





	semantics, mostly

**Author's Note:**

> for gigi and her balrog heart. always.
> 
> \--enclosed screenshots (for reference and my own indulgence) are mine. and bioware's, i suppose.--

 

 

He wasn't avoiding Oliver, per se.

He wasn't _not_ avoiding him, either.

 

It was semantics, mostly. Semantics and pride.

 

 _I'll show you how Tevinters party_ , he'd said a few nights ago, a hefty promise, he knows, his mouth upturned into a wicked smirk, his eyes glittering, his face a perfect picture of impure invitation, and he knew this was how he looked because he's practiced it, damn it, he's practiced it for the whole duration of the _Inquisition's Finest_ arguing in the War Room nearby, in front of a gilded, cracked mirror in Josephine's pedantic office, no less, because no self-respecting Tevinter, no matter how geographically-removed or system-loathing they actually were, would have gone about this in any other way.

 

And _if only_ the person on the receiving end was a Tevinter as well, Dorian would've had it so, _so_ easy. A Tevinter target would have known what to expect and how to respond, and would have understood how much preparation has gone into all of this - and why Dorian's been hiding for the past three days due to the horrific shameful trauma of an unfortunately-massive cock-up. And when he'd said "all of this", it really was _all that_ , the– the _wooing_ , the asking, the event itself, but _apparently_ , as if he didn't know this about himself yet (there was very little that was still obscured to him regarding all his advantages -- so many -- and shortcomings -- so very few), Dorian could still surprise himself in a capacity that was apparent enough for him to notice, especially to point out his failures (he used to have his Father for that, yes, but it looked like his own mind just took over, and played the role _splendidly_ ) regarding one Oliver Inquisitor Trevelyan.

Usually his wooing had been a carefully-honed perfection, an art in itself, a needs-must damning necessity, springing to rickety life in his teens (right about when he had realized that Tevinter was, in all of Thedas, the most cosmopolitan, tidiest place, but also the most _judgmental_ cosmopolitan _,_ tidiest place, and hence very averse to the idea of two men frolicking in the- _not_ fields, _please_ , Tevinter had neither time nor care for fields, but definitely in their busy markets or ballrooms or ports) and polished into formidable expertise into his late twenties.

 

Pompousness and farce were, after all, Tevinter's most praised characteristics and pastime.

 

His homeland's animosity towards same-sex couples wasn't the only reason why he ran so far away, all the way across Tevinter, Nevarra, Orlais and into Ferelden, to these blasted (cold, desolate, ruthless) mountains, situated at some forsaken Old God's Asscrack, but it was definitely an important one, and while Dorian wasn't a particularly fatalistic man, he had to admit that hauling his ass over so many Thedas hedges and walls and landing straight in Inquisitor's (single, tight, _leather_ ) lap had made him believe in destiny just a little bit.

Well.

He hasn't landed _in_ Oliver's lap, per se.

Not _yet_ , at least. But, he was trying. Semantics, see?

 

He had a plan. A good plan. Honestly. For their first date. It was going to be Tevinter-style despite their Asscrack Skyhold Keep lacking _everything_ Tevinter-y, but he would do his damnest to amass enough alcohol and cushions and opportunities -- in that order, too -- to have Oliver drunk and dazed and dazzled, impressed to high-heavens by Dorian's skill at playing Charade of the romantic kind, to become his own personal putty Dorian could seemingly-innocently touch, fleeting contact neither here nor there because that says _Unplanned and Sweetly Decent_ , so terribly unlike Dorian himself, and he could hide his downright _feverish_ adoration for Thedas' Most Important Person behind these falsely-random touches that were just on the unsafe side of platonic that Oliver would hopefully, helplessly, definitely-charmingly shudder at and lean into and silently beg Dorian for more.

 

Like he said.

 

He had a plan.

But in all of his careful planning, he's forgotten one very important thing. Or, two, actually.

The first one would be Iron Bull, and the second one Sera.

He had no proof, naturally. But he was willing to bet anything in his possession, anything at all, down to his last silken small-clothes, that one or the other but most likely both, have caught wind of his furious date preparations and have, even more furiously, worked together the way they have never been able to before, on any mission; and, once again, Dorian knew this to be true because he's been there, cold out of his mind with toes nearly chipping off in his boots, or hot with sand in places he wouldn't name even in Qarinus slang, or wet and miserable, caught between the rainy downpour from above and dragon-sized waves from below in Storm Coast because _someone,_ _Oliver_ , had thought it was a great idea to bring _the spoilt Tevinter along_ , but the point of the matter was that sometimes the other two people on the team were Bull and Sera, and Dorian mused he's managed to survive some of the more hostile environments solely because he was so very entertained by the insults and roasting the other two have graced each other with.

That, and because of Oliver's ass in his tight leather pants.

He was kind of impressed. Not just with the ass, though, yes, of course, that was thrilling all by itself as well. _Unpleasantly_ impressed, but impressed nonetheless because if _those two_ found a common denominator to form an alliance over, never mind that it was Dorian's misery for being cockblocked that had them bury the hatchet, hope remained even for mages and templars to once co-exist again without running each other into the ground constantly by magic or swords or era-long sulks.

 

So, he was fairly certain they had spiked the wine he's put on the side so very lovingly, having had snuffed out the part of the vaults bellow the Asscrack Keep that held a beautifully-stacked cellar, sorting through and sneaking out some of Tevinter's finest under his robes.

He was still not sure how he'd managed to walk all the way up to his library nook with so many bottles between his legs.

 

But, somewhere along the way during that First Date, the wine had been spiked, and the cushions had barely been used, and Dorian had no recollection whatsoever whether he's managed to touch Oliver _at all,_ after that first maddening brush of his lips over Oliver's knuckles when he picked him up to take him to the Tavern's loft. Where the cushions and besmirching awaited.

Dorian shifted in his chair, suddenly feeling warmer, wetting his lips.

He was grateful that he retained at least that sliver of a memory, the phantom feel of Oliver's curiously-soft knuckles under his lips, the way the little hairs stood upwards at the tickle of Dorian's breath and moustache, the rest of the hazy night shrouded in smoke and headache and more incomparable longing than he would care to admit out loud, _to anyone_ , even if he was tortuously-spread between four horses, his Father, and Corypheus himself, about to be pulled and dismembered into six different directions. He'd die, rather gruesomely, too, of course, but even _that_ was more favourable than publicly confessing how his tapestry of unresolved sexual tension had knots upon knots of sexual tension itself.

He was counting on the First Date to take care of at least some of those knots.

And by take care of he meant to dissolve the tightly-strung, knitted together strings of feelings like Desperation and Affection and Apprehension, and he could give more specific examples, too, he could give _ample_ examples despite only being at Inquisitor's side for two measly months, and Oliver wasn't even an _Inquisitor_ at first, he started out as some damn Unwelcome Prisoner turned Bumbling Herald turned Fucking Leader of Inquisition Armies and Dorian's Heart, and he even knew and remembered the actual _Incident_ , capital I, when he had realized that this was an _untrodden territory of disastrously dopey smiles on his face, and wagging eyebrows from other knowing companions,_ and he still wasn't sure if any of this was actually a good idea at all.

Two months. Seriously?

He's known men in Tevinter a lot longer than that. For years. For over a decade, even, and it never went beyond scratching that itch. Perhaps there were predispositions for deeper connections sometimes, timidly extended but inevitably squashed and nipped in the bud _because Tevinter_ , but that was after several tumbles in the dark and more than several months of sharing lessons, events, and gifts. _This_ , this was just ridiculous. You can't even secure a new sofa recliner or a pure-bred horse or a new ball gown in two months. Let alone get utterly stupid over someone who wasn't even your _type_.

Dorian had never expected to get weak at the knees with his tongue like a tree trunk in his mouth, hands and words stuttering in equal amounts if a guy -- sweet and uncorrupt, with illusions of grandeur that maybe they just might survive this whole _Thedas is going bananas_ thing -- such as Oliver walked-stumbled by.

A younger guy, at that, with Perpetual Stubble, no less (Dorian was, as all Tevinter nobility, genetically programmed to _loathe_ stubble, putting great pride in clean-shaven faces or intricately-designed Works of Art like his own whimsical moustache, and the problem with Oliver's stubble was it Never Went Away, and an even bigger problem with Oliver's stubble was that it was _Hot Damn_ , and had Dorian spend many a night wondering, with his finger working himself open and chasing that delicious ache, how the slide of that Stubble would have felt against his naked torso), and with the hair the colour _of a_ _watered-down stew_ ( _honestly_ , Oliver's hair changed colour depending on where he stood in the room, it was maddening and impossible and Dorian has catalogued eleven different nuances of _brown_ so far, his favourite one the bronzy-brown with golden halo-like streaks when Oliver leaned low over Dorian that one night in candlelight... This sounded way, way more exciting than it actually was, mainly because It Wasn't Like That, Honestly, as Dorian had dozed off with a bit of dribble oozing out in the left corner of his mouth, cradling a book he'd rather be dead than caught with, jerking into consciousness with an undignified yelp as Oliver snorted playfully above him, looking so damn _pleased_ with himself by catching Dorian off-guard, and then he beamed at him with eyes like saucers at some impromptu magic Dorian had not only cast accidentally but also _underperformed_ in his fumbling for some higher grounds.

 

 

 

He'd lost track of his thoughts again, hasn't he? This was also one of the by-products of his infatuation with the colour-changing Inquisitor, his mind going blank and slack and foggy, tying for the second place with shallow breaths that had nothing to do with collecting those blasted glass shards with Oliver at great altitudes, with both of these two inept embarrassments being thoroughly left behind by the absolute winner in the shape of Dorian's not-inconsiderable libido waving a white flag, and then crawling to one of the corners in this _round_ tower and having a good old cry.

 

And he didn't even specify the Incident yet.

It was dumb. So dumb.

He never believed the books for a moment, those trashy novels his Mother liked to read; he knew there was not a fat chance in the whole of Thedas that people heard impromptu _music_ and saw _birds_ doing whatever it was that birds did besides fly and poop, or fly and poop at the same time, when it dawned on them, staring at the Object of their Affection, how impossibly-madly-atrociously they had fallen in love. But he at least hoped the sensations accompanying this revelation were _somewhat_ pleasant.

 

Music and birds, _as if._

 

It was fuck o'clock in the morning on which they were supposed to head out to Emerald Graves, Sera yawning so widely she looked scarily like a Despair demon herself, with Varric and Cassandra growling into each other's faces again before they even had any breakfast. The only other person in the room was Oliver, who studiously ignored Sera becoming Possessed, and looked pointedly away from Cassandra and the dwarf, who were apparently two steps from reenacting the Battle of Haven, arguing which one would portray Corypheus and which one an unfortunate, mangled body -- _any_ unfortunate, mangled body -- and Oliver sat on an _upturned bucket_ as if they haven't given him an Inquisitor Throne up there on the pedestal at the far end of the galley, munching on bread with breadcrumbs clumsily, messily falling into his scarf -- unnoticing, of course, _always_ unnoticing, because that was what Oliver was like, awkward and sweet and unassuming, and unapologetic about all of it, and then, because he was wolfing the bread down as if he had been starved for the past week, it caught in his throat, first giving him a coughing fit, followed by his eyes watering up like a dam in Crestwood, and then he sneezed, he fucking _sneezed_ , like a special-needs kitten, and Dorian was watching all of it as if transfixed and compelled and heading voluntarily into a disaster, sporting a massive headache for the rest of the day and somehow unable to meet Oliver's worried, inquisitive -- ha! -- looks.

He's had that headache ever since.

And now a new one on top of the old one for the past three days, courtesy of Sera and Bull.

He also generously and selflessly and _fully_ blamed them for nearly jumping out of his skin ten seconds later when Oliver sneaked up on him, throwing and squishing himself into the chair with Dorian without an invitation, in the same way he hadn't waited for one when he made Dorian fall in love with him, cradling a mug of warm cider and staring at him so expectantly as if Dorian had scheduled a speech for this particular time and place beforehand.

Which, who knows. He _might_ have had. He really didn't remember much from their date night, apart from it going so not the way he had so carefully planned.

 

Hence the _not_ ignoring the Inquisitor bit.

 

***

 

In hindsight, perhaps he should have given Dorian some warning. A head-start, at least.

To extend him the courtesy Dorian had never granted him.

And, he was pretty sure he would have, on any other night. With any other person. Oliver was nice like that. Sometimes he was convinced the Inquisition still stood not because Josephine was such a good diplomat or because Leliana's network of spies had been more complex than Qunari's vein and nerves grid, or even because Commander Cullen had trained their troops so damn well, but because Oliver Trevelyan, the sole survivor of the Conclave when the world got cut in two with that Green Split in the sky, was kind of a Really Nice Person and had hated people arguing in general.

He also really hated people prematurely dying in general, and people dirtily scheming in general, and people eating garlic before bed in general, but what he hated more than anything else was Dorian existing-conjuring- _radiating_ so far away from his own quarters. In general.

Again, if not for this cup of cider and an early on-set of his Dorian-influenced epidemic, he might have been playing nice tonight. That he had no intention of doing so became clear to him the moment he squished himself in Dorian's chair while the chair was occupied.

 _By Dorian_.

 

 _"Hi_ ," Dorian breathed, a fleeting shadow of wonderment and coyness passing over his eyes, as if confused in spite of himself, something so very earnest in his open expression.

It was very nice, really, the scarcity of all the buffoonery; though highly entertaining, it wasn't what drew Oliver to Dorian in the first place. Sometimes, on rare occasions, but it happened, and to Oliver's delight it happened mostly only around him, Dorian was relaxed enough to forget about the bravado he was supposed to exude, body and words, as if spontaneously, slowly (perhaps without notice, too) learning that in _not-Tevinter_ , Dorian was allowed to be himself and leave his peacock feathers behind.

Dorian's genuine, huffed greeting was a low, husky rumble that reminded Oliver instantly why he wanted-needed- _hungered_ for their quarters to be closer together, and what he came up here for tonight, hoping Dorian would still be in his cozy little reading nook where Oliver figured he must have been for the past three days since their botched-up date.

In a heartbeat, though, Dorian's open face was changing, replacing an almost boyish-delight at Oliver's arrival with a practiced air of swagger and bluster.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Oliver could see _exactly_ what was happening here. One more moment, and Dorian would have himself under control, his shields carefully, seamlessly raised and slotting into place, genuine, unchecked emotions guarded and disciplined, his words carefully chosen and delivered as if life was an opening night to a play that was _Dorian, House Pavus of Qarinus, most recently of Minrathus_ , his introduction in Redcliffe village still in perfect memory in Oliver's mind, and he couldn't, _wouldn't_ have that, not anymore, not since he'd been permitted to peek behind the veil, such a precious, _treasured_ sight of Dorian without all the fireworks and elevated words and pompousness masking the real, raw creature beneath.

Being with him that afternoon after Dorian had received a letter regarding Felix's passing was bitter-sweet, for obvious reasons: they sat together and toasted and mourned Felix, but _during_ those hours of sitting together and toasting and mourning Felix, Oliver had seen Dorian in all of his prime colours and sharp edges and instinctive reactions, and he had fallen hard, breathless and stumbling and half-blind like that day when the world ended and he fell out of the Fade, a place otherwise-reserved for Dreams and Demons, and most-recently for Oliver when he had given away his heart.

 

"You owe me an actual date," Oliver blurted, cutting straight to the point before time ran out and Dorian's smile was too by-the-book again, conscious in design, the man carefully choosing his actions to benefit himself to whatever purpose he was working on next.

He was awarded with another huff of a surprise. "Owe it, do I?"

Oliver smirked, knowing he was risking a lot, but ploughing on bravely nonetheless because if he's learned _anything_ while being thrust into such a position of power in the past few months, it was that idiots like him could actually get shit done if only they stuck to their beliefs. How many times had he stopped Leliana from sending out a hit order by now? How many times had he stopped a courtyard scuffle between two templars who were chest-thumping, slinging an arm around each of them and telling a stupid joke? How many times had he gotten drunk in the tavern- no, wait, wrong example. Anyway.

"Unless you've changed your mind."

Something warm spread outwards from the centre of his chest at Dorian's unconcealed face of shock, the way he scrambled all over himself to try and deny the fake accusation, his lovely mouth open to start reassuring Oliver how that was not the case, but Oliver's victory was short lived because Dorian wasn't a stupid, inexperienced man, especially not in _these_ kind of games, and Oliver could see exactly when it clicked for Dorian that he was being jested.

" _Ah_. I see you like to play."

"I'd like to play _you_ ," tumbled out of his mouth, and, wow, he really was stepping up his game tonight. He'd be much, much more cautious if the date invitation hadn't come from Dorian first, an obvious extension of interest and intention from his part. The old Oliver might have been horrified at the lewdness of his own claims, but this new, 2.0 Oliver? _He gets shit done_. "Like that fiddle in the tavern that gets played every night."

Dorian's eyes widened, his guard still present, flickering weakly around the edges, but so obviously driven back by Oliver's frankness and forwardness that Dorian seemed none too concerned with keeping himself in check right now. It was a powerful feeling, knowing he could dispel all those defences with some poorly-executed puns about sex. And _musical instruments_ , for crying out loud.

It didn't escape him how Dorian's eyes dropped to his mouth and then quickly back up again as if he was aware of the action but Just Couldn't Help Himself, and for the love of everything holy, _please could Dorian not help himself tonight, please_? Oliver silently congratulated himself for not overthinking things, for once, and applauding himself for unceremoniously plopping himself down in this chair earlier. What a brilliant idea, oh, oh, _Maker_.

Dorian still just stared, and Oliver couldn't, absolutely couldn't, if his life depended on it, keep both thrill and amusement out of his voice.

"Are you quite all right, Dorian?"

Dorian moved, which was a Wonderful Idea if deliberate, and an equally Wonderful Reaction if accidental, because with them sitting so close, every movement made both of their thighs press even closer together, and it was tight and warm and Oliver swore the tingling wasn't due to his leather pants being too small but because Dorian, in candlelight, solid and unguarded and sweltering, was a sight to behold, and what was even better than all of this _combined_ was Dorian's apparent struggle with their proximity.

"What? Oh, yes. Yes. Quite."

"Do you want some of my cider?" Oh, right, he was still holding on to his rapidly-cooling mug. "Or something stronger?" _Like my cock?_

"No, no, please don't get up on my account."

Oliver knew his face was rapidly becoming the Most Smug Thing in the Whole of Thedas, but once again, he just. Couldn't. Help. Himself.

"If I didn't know better I would have thought you don't want us to stop sharing this chair of yours."

To his utter delight, Dorian could mirror that exact same face perfectly.

"You would assume _correctly_ , Inquisitor."

 

Oliver hated the title something fierce. It was another of those things that he loathed in general, placed above garlic breath at midnight, but definitely below having his dwellings so far from Dorian's. They were half the Keep's away, for Andraste's sake, and he felt like before they did any more missions or went to any more court gatherings, or accepted any more blasted Antivan allies, Josephine's wrath be damned, he needed to do something, something specific and damning and explicit enough, to move Dorian into his quarters at night at least temporarily until he could come up with a more permanent solution.

 

He was _beyond help_ for the man, give him a fucking break.

 

As for the title... He wasn't even over being called the blasted Herald. Who the fuck thought he'd like _this_ upgrade? Josephine, most likely. Leliana, too. Not to mention Cassandra, who couldn't stop breathing it out with a misguided sort of reverence as if Oliver had really been blessed or touched or whatever by a long-dead presumably-holy woman who had nothing better to do than touch young men in their prime. (Which was something Andraste and Oliver had in common, apparently, because touching Dorian was the only thing he was able to think about even while closing all those rifts, _especially_ when closing all those rifts because they always correlated to Dorian artfully twisting his body and fucking up demons and displaying his magical prowess to such a level Oliver was trembling all over not because the rift had made him weak but because he was ready to strip and beg to be claimed on the pile of demon corpses in the name of the Inquisition.) Oliver disliked being apotheosized on principle because he had to remind everyone about fifteen times per day that the mark on his hand was anything but sacred, and that he wasn't a pious man himself, and at least the rest of his away-team has found it rather ridiculous as well, lately resorting to using the title only when Oliver's done something completely daft.

Like, _Which idiot thought that setting a camp ten feet from a cliff was a good idea? Oh, it was the Inquisitor._

Or, _Our Inquisitor is such a good diplomat. He's managed to piss off the templars and the mages at the same time._

Or, _Why are there four bears chasing us at once, Inquisitor?_

 

"If you call me Inquisitor _one more time_."

Dorian's eyes sparkled dangerously, getting on equal footing at last.

"And what will you do, _Inqui_ -"

Oliver growled low in his throat, warning and dismay unchecked, and lunged vengefully, hungrily for his mouth to shut him up, swallowing both the last two syllables and Dorian's surprised gasp at the gesture, and mentally waved an erected Inquisition flag, yellow sunrays and the sword on a crimson background, on a field of _victory_ when it hit him all at once that he had kissed Dorian.

 _Was_ kissing Dorian.

 _On the mouth_.

Finally.

Maker's breath.

...All right, perhaps he was a _little_ bit pious.

But now that he's started, he wasn't sure he knew how to stop. Or that he wanted to. In fact, stopping all this, this _liquid happiness_ being traded between their mouths, was surely the Worst Idea in the whole history of bad ideas, even worse than Corypheus' when he had decided he would have a go at this Godlike thing, so he pushed forward and licked into Dorian's mouth with such enthusiasm he nearly lost all of his breath mere seconds into the kiss.

He pulled back with a gasp, not too far away because going in the _opposite direction of Dorian_ whatever they were doing or wherever they were has started to prove detrimental to Oliver's health (in general, yes), and on top of that he didn't want to give any mixed or, Maker forbid, wrong signals that he regretted this, so he pulled back just enough to inhale deeply, but that was right now a Proper Strain because Dorian has fluttered his eyes open, his grey irises like a blend of molten iron and silver, swirling in amusement and hunger, and Oliver threw the rest of his caution (also lung capacity) to the wind and surged forward again.

The muffled _something_ he swallowed this time could have come from either of them, fuck him if he knew, but Dorian was cupping his jaw now, so insanely sweet for such an infuriating man, the thumb swiping across Oliver's cheek with tenderness he didn't expect.

He pulled away, again, _what the hell was wrong with him_ , to tell Dorian some age-old truths about beautiful men who thought they could saunter around looking like _that_ and had the audacity to _caress his face_ while they kissed, but this time Dorian huffed in obvious annoyance at the move.

" _Kaffas_ , Oliver, you can't keep kissing me only to pull aw-"

"I'm sorry I'm _sorry_ I didn't mean-"

Dorian suddenly froze, his hand going very still on Oliver's face, actually managing to misinterpret Oliver's jumble of words as Regret or Rejection or some other Utterly Horrible Thing that Oliver _absolutely didn't feel_ , and started to sink down and into his large chair, eyes jumping away and becoming fixed on the bookshelf behind Oliver's head, and that was _also_ one of those Opposite and Detrimental things Oliver was talking about, so he threw himself at Dorian _yet again_ , groaning inwardly at what a bloody mess he was making when all he wanted to do was press into Dorian and just kiss him and kiss him _and kiss him_ , so he did, his mouth fast on Dorian's as he pushed-asked-pleaded to be let in again.

Dorian whined low in his throat, such an onslaught clearly taking its toll on him, but then his hands gripped Oliver's shoulders, half-turning in the seat to face him better, and he opened up like a chest of gold for plundering. Oliver fell forward, one hand still holding that blasted cider mug, propping itself on the armrest on Dorian's side and thus effectively boxing him in, the other one snaking its way up into Dorian's sleek hair, and the moment was absolutely perfect, it was perfect, third time was _definitely_ the charm. Oliver felt like he was swimming in a sea of liquid gold and warmth, but then someone on the other side of the landing of the damn tower yelped and dropped something and then scurried off, and this time it was Dorian who pulled away, colour high on his cheeks.

"If that was _either_ Sera or Bull I will set fire to their small-clothes."

Oliver found this absolutely comical, on top of pretty probable and also slightly confusing, but he didn't move his body, still facing inwards towards the chair and Dorian, one of his arms still pinning him there.

"Why them?"

"Long story."

"What if it was Solas?"

"Now _that's_ awkward. Do you think he even wears underwear?"

Oliver laughed. "I wouldn't worry if I were you, it was most likely Grand Enchanter Fiona," he shrugged, and then he realized he's accidentally hit the nail on the head. Not just with the Fiona bit, because he was dead-sure the surprised outcry could only be her before she's made herself scarce, which, _good woman thank you so much now that's comradery yes,_ but it dawned on him the worrying part was pretty much all that was playing over on Dorian's face.

 

Of course.

 

How absolutely daft of him.

Dorian was from _Tevinter_.

Oliver's head fell forward, his forehead hitting the back of the chair next to Dorian's head.

" _Dorian_."

They were so close he could hear him swallowing down something thick, something like excitement and uncertainty and too many unspoken thoughts.

"Oliver?"

"You do know this is okay here, right?"

Dorian huffed, the rasp in his voice not fooling either of them.

"So terribly unspecific."

Oliver groaned, not removing his head from where it rested against the chair. But if he turned his head to the right just so... "You know exactly what we're talking about."

"Would that be the atrocious design of this chair or that the carpet is the colour of vomit? _Ow_ ," Dorian yelped, as Oliver nipped at his ear playfully.

" _Dorian_."

Dorian's hands slowly came off his shoulders and neatly placed themselves back in his own lap with the forgotten book.

"Honestly, Inquisitor, I am not some blushing _bride_ ," he forced out, but Oliver could still see and hear the strain.

"Dorian, I'm sorry. It was inconsiderate of me to do this in a public place without checking first if you were okay with it."

Oliver hated how his sincere, heartfelt words were accompanied with his absolute inability to pull away, so he ended whispering it all into Dorian's ear as if he was talking Utter Filth instead of an apology. The fact that Dorian trembled a little bit at the touch only made his heart beat faster, and it did precisely nothing to quell his thirst. Who was the blushing bride now?

"It's fine."

Oliver finally pulled away enough to look into his -– dark like the endless pits of the Fade, wide like the chasm beneath Skyhold, absolutely gorgeous -- eyes.

"I have a question for you."

"Always with the questions, huh."

"This is serious."

"Okay."

"And I'm doing this disclaimer first because I don't want you to take this the wrong way."

One of Dorian's perfect eyebrows rose with his mouth forming an unspoken question, and all Oliver wanted to do was press closer and kiss him again, not talk more.

"Have you kissed anyone or been with anyone since you've left Tevinter?"

"Why? Keeping tab on my dirty endeavours, Inquisitor?"

Oliver tried not to, but belatedly noticed his eyes rolled heavily around his skull anyway.

"This is what I _meant_. I know you're plenty capable of a pull-"

A sliver of something even _darker_ passed over Dorian's eyes, and one of his hands on his book twitched, warmth radiating off his frame, and instantaneously Oliver knew Dorian was less worried about this than they both thought he was.

"I'm trying to pull _you_ ," he rasped, swallowing as if unsure of his own clumsy admission, wanting it to be smoother, and then he looked past Oliver's head as if to inspect the state of the tower, or at least their floor in the tower, and its present inhabitants -- and the lack there-of. Oliver made himself concentrate; beating about the bush and pussyfooting was totally counterproductive because honestly, they needed to focus and have this conversation done and over with as soon as possible so he could go back to smooching his favourite misunderstood mage in the whole of Thedas, and as much as it freaked him out that he already had _a favourite (misunderstood) mage in the whole of Thedas_ two months into knowing the damn mage, he was irrevocably convinced of the gains severely outweighing the losses.

"Dorian, I was only trying to say that in case I am your first- ...In case you haven't- ...In case you've been _alone_ all your time in Ferelden, fuck," Oliver grunted and let his forehead fall towards Dorian's while he ignored both Horror and Delight springing up in him for his fumbling, warming up at Dorian's answering predatory smile, "then perhaps you haven't experienced yet on your own, in your own skin, that this is _so_ very much _okay_ here."

He tried to punctuate each word with a full stop, but it was hard because this really was the first time him and Dorian were _this_ close, post-kissing, no less, and from so close there was too much he could see and hear and feel, the smoothness of Dorian's bronzed skin and the way his breath caught in his throat when he tried to pretend he wasn't affected, and Oliver was only a very turned on man who tried to tell _his favourite mage (misunderstood; in the whole of Thedas)_ that two men here in this part of the world in public were fine and that nobody cared, not even Fiona who skedaddled away earlier not because of disgust but to give them some more privacy.

Dorian's eyes once again went in the telling way of sweeping the tower for lurkers, but then they went even in a more telling way down to Oliver's mouth, and Oliver thought, _oh fuck yes_. Oliver leaned away and down, and placed the mug with cider on the floor, needing both hands for this. When he straightened back up, Dorian's pupils were already blown wide, and, _oh_ , Dorian's got rid of the book in his lap as well, but not carefully placing it down like Oliver with his mug, no, Dorian pretty much tossed it, took the book and dropped it over the side of the armrest, and this in itself was pure wonderment because Dorian valued his books above _anything_ else. Oliver shook his thoughts free, watching how Dorian turned halfway towards him again, left side of his mouth pulled into a bold smirk that almost, _almost_ hid his careful resolution that he trusted Oliver -- and the not-Tevinter part of Thedas -- with this.

_Maker's breath._

(Perhaps more than a little bit pious?)

 

***

 

_Fasta Vass._

_Just do it already._

_Look at him, for fuck's sake._

_Breathless with anticipation and beautiful beyond words and waiting for you and so incredibly, unbelievably **here**._

Dorian felt like he was about to kiss Oliver again for the first time despite their handful of heavy snogs before, and the fact that both of them seemed to be sober _and without cushions_ confused him greatly, channeling all of his previous (not insignificant, but in this case very much so) experiences, so used to mutual inebriation and pretense that lead to him and another man tumbling into bed together, he was almost at a loss on how to proceed.

Oliver's thigh was pressing tightly into his, both of them tipped towards each other but motionless, stoic, sensing and trembling, and seriously, this chair was not meant to sit two grown up men, especially not when they were about to fall apart from the invisible tension between their mouths, and if his first official kiss as an _emotionally-freed Tevinter male in Ferelden_ was to be a fluke that ended in the chair breaking or more uninvited people wandering to this floor of the tower, he would assuredly, and rather unfortunately, spontaneously combust in shame and all that damn pent up sexual tension.

 

Oliver had asked if he was his First.

 

No, not like that, he knew what Oliver was asking, but it didn't make him any less flustered that Oliver was so considerate as to take the time to assure Dorian how this was fine and how Dorian was allowed to hold and kiss someone of the same gender here, and while Dorian theoretically knew all this, he really hadn't had any time to put any of this knowledge into practice. Not with the sky ripping open and the world falling apart.

He watched, dazed, as his left hand went for Oliver's cheek again, because apparently his infatuation with that blasted Stubble had been for real, not just a naughty kink in the darkest hours of the night, deliciously tickling and prickling his palm, and he felt like he should be holding Oliver's face always.

Something lodged sideways in his throat as Oliver turned his head and caught Dorian's palm before it could fall away, kissing the Life and the Love lines there as some great prognostication of all things Future, and Dorian pulled him in, by the jaw, and with the last reservation in him waving in capitulation before he dispelled it out of his mind, he kissed him. It felt very important to him that he should instigate the kiss this time, and Oliver must have been of them same thoughts if his patient waiting was anything to go by, but now that Dorian pulled them together again, lips on lips, the Inquisitor's excitable, bubbly nature was on full display again. His playful, warm, impish kisses were the stuff of summery picnics and butterflies and _birds_ , and, Maker's Hairy Bollocks, he didn't just think of birds, _he did not_ , if he kept this up he'll start babbling about music soon, and-

And-

...Fuck.

It wasn't exactly music, but there was _something_ in his ears, something like a whole lot of cotton being stuffed in there until his whole head was _ringing,_ and he tried to catch the rhythm, and hum to the tune it, and then Oliver was chuckling against his lips, his eyes open and wide and asking.

"What?"

"Dorian, were you _singing_?"

Blasted books of his blasted Mother.

"...No?"

"See, normally I would get upset over you lying to me, but it was rather entertaining how I was trying to do this _wonderful thing of kissing you_ but I couldn't because you were _humming_."

Dorian swallowed hard, feeling something impossibly light flutter around his rib cage. _Don't think of the birds, whatever you do, don't fucking think of the fucking birds._ Who even talked like that? About him? In the open? _About him?_

"Shut up, Inquisitor, and kiss me again," he murmured, knowing he will be victorious because of that silly title that Oliver loathed so much, and decided he would feel bad for his foul play later. He had other priorities right now, not that many of them, true, but all of them were Oliver-related and he whined low into his mouth as Oliver's lips took his again, no holding back or second thoughts on his part, and it utterly dazzled Dorian how this man was so generous with giving Dorian his attention and affection. It was a heady feeling and he was thinking all too much, he was aware of it, but tonight took a turn he honestly did not expect.

Oliver nipped at his lower lip and sucked it into his mouth, his tongue working against the sting and against one of Dorian's tapestry knots, loosening it, unraveling it, and it became increasingly impossible to ignore all the heat stirring low in his belly. Both of Oliver's hands were in Dorian's hair, which meant he had no way of holding himself upright like before with the leaning, practically plastering himself onto Dorian whose left hand was still caressing and utterly enjoying the Stubble, and his right one squeezing and clenching around Oliver's hip.

 _...Hip_?

When did _that_ happen?

"Oliver," he gasped, and then gasped again because that blasted, brilliant, beautiful man just kept going, welding their lips together and then pushing them apart with his tongue and seeking-searching-claiming his, pressing into him and making all of his inbred inhibitions melt away with all this _heat_ -

" _Oliver_."

Oliver pulled away with an almost desperate look, suspended between worrying he took it too far -- _oh, Maker's breath, are you serious, not nearly far **enough**_ \-- and between being so utterly _into_ this, and what this was was just a _whole lot of kissing_ and yet it made Dorian's head spin, realizing that a mere act of kissing could be so damn encapsulating.

"What? What did I do, what? Too fast? Too much? You must _tell_ me."

Dorian chuckled and tried to process what Oliver even said in his throwing up of words. It wasn't even important, everything was clearly fine, _more_ than fine, he just needed to tell him how he was enjoying this perhaps _too_ much. But before he could form any words in his head and his mouth because Oliver has clearly done _something_ to his brain, and Oliver wasn't even a mage, so how the hell did that happen, Dorian's eyes glanced downwards to check just how incriminating his body's reaction was.

 

Well.

 

Oliver, Maker take him, was focused so intently on him that he clearly followed Dorian's movement, glancing down at Dorian's lap himself, and shit, now he'll see just how stretchy _or not_ Dorian's pants were, the obvious bulge straining against the firm cloth. Dorian almost expected another chuckle in his ear or against his lips, but Oliver went quiet, breath puffing out strained, and he looked up, and.

Oliver's throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed, transfixed and hungry, and then he pinned Dorian against the chair with his intense look alone.

"Oliv-"

"If you tell me to stop kissing you now I might just _cry_ and I am not above myself to admit it," Oliver murmured, his voice so low it was dangerous.

"I don't want to stop kissing you," Dorian's mouth said on their own as if he had no say in all of this, the hand on Oliver's face, _Maker that Stubble_ , already pulling him back in.

 

Someone had to set a bad example of having no restraint, and it might as well be him.

 

***

 

"Mmm," Oliver hummed noncommittal, shamelessly loving his higher-grounds position right now. It wasn't often that anyone at all managed to one-up Dorian in any given situation, and they have tried, oh, have they tried -- there was a bet going around, even, and Varric was currently in the lead to be the one to break Dorian's winning streak of retorts -- and Oliver almost wished they could see him now, having Dorian all flustered and stuttering at his feet, but then he was also _quite_ happy that they were pretty much alone here, so he would take this miraculous moment and cherish it and milk it dry.

"A question, though," Dorian rasped, so obviously trying to hold onto the last of his marbles before they all went flying and skipping around the grounds at their feet.

"Yes, Dorian?"

"I need to know, _ah_ ," the words were stopped once more as Oliver sucked behind his ear, licking and nipping at the skin that he always expected to taste spicy and exotic, realizing his mistake as the evening progressed, finding sweetness where he expected none, both in the skin and Dorian's mouth and heart. Dorian's bronzed expanse of skin available to him was like toffeed candy, utterly saccharine like the man himself when the shields were down and discarded, the syrupy tongue in his mouth hot and pliant and thrusting back with such enthusiasm Oliver wondered if he might not be developing a sweet tooth for kissing Dorian already.

He chuckled.

"Yes?"

"Are you planning to take me with you on the next mission?"

This was the last thing Oliver expected, making him momentarily pause and forego more laving at that gorgeous column of Dorian's neck with his tongue, wondering if there was a catch to this, a trick question.

"Yes?"

"And, uhm, the next one?"

"Yes?"

"And the _next_ -"

Oliver chuckled, nudging their noses together, watching how Dorian all but _melted_ into him.

"Dorian, what's this about?"

Dorian looked up through his lashes, slowly and searchingly, unsure and sure all at once, eyes still fathomless pits with a small silver lining all around, and Maker, _dear Maker_ , Oliver hated how this man made him stoop so low to have him silently uttering words of belief and piety that not even bloodied fields after battles had, but he'd gladly rasp Dorian's name again and again as if it was the most sacred of words.

"I noticed," Dorian whispered between them, as if this was more intimate and private than kissing, "that you rotate your team members when taking us out."

What a bizarre turn of conversation.

"I do, yes," Oliver ceded. "Everyone has their own set of irreplaceable skills, and I believe in us connecting, befriending the team as a whole."

He couldn't resist touching Dorian's nose again with his, both of them falling silent for a moment. He had a feeling he knew where this was going, anticipating it with both eagerness and slight fear for the buzz and frenzy it awoke deep in his guts.

"Oliver," Dorian murmured, still as low and confidential as before, as if this was _special_ , "but you take _me_ with you every single time."

 

And. There it was.

 

Oliver exhaled, squeezing his eyes shut. How was it that he walked, fearless, towards every green rift in the sky and thrust his hand up to close it, eyes burning with the foulness surrounding him, harsh air whipping around his face as he ignored the demons trying to rip his companions apart, trusting they had this covered, that they had _him_ covered, focusing on the rift without constantly giving into the need to check if everyone was okay, if _Dorian_ was okay--

And that's what it was, wasn't it?

That's why he alternated his away-team on a regular basis, but keeping Dorian with him, close to him, selfishly, greedily hogging all of the other man's time and resources, unable to keep himself from letting him stay in the Skyhold Keep, even when he knew that the place where they were going was utterly hellish and that Dorian will resemble a morose, bitter creature under the onslaught of all the nature's elements.

Knowing that he himself would resemble a morose, bitter creature even more if this impossible man was not with him at any given time.

"I like to have you safe," was what he had decided on in the end, belatedly realizing how incredibly illogical, if not daft, it sounded. Dorian, of course, has picked up on it as well, if his tentative grin was anything to go by.

"Safe, huh? So I'm safer if spread between a Rage and a Hunger demon, watching you tremble under another sickly tear in the sky, than tucked away in here, amongst books in the castle while you go away?"

Dorian was grinning fully by the time he's finished his question, and Oliver couldn't help himself but to answer in kind, his own mouth voluntarily splitting open like another rift, but this one was all bashfulness and spark, admitting to everything and nothing at once.

"That's right."

"Is that so."

Oliver dropped his voice.

"You are safer with me."

Dorian fidgeted in the chair, smirking, clearly both amused and overcome at that.

"You mean _you_ are safer with _me_."

It was a game, and it was so familiar and easy and _fun_ , reminiscent of their usual banter, but infinitely better because Dorian so obviously wasn't putting his Tevinter charades up.

"No," Oliver chuckled, "I'm pretty sure the _Saviour of Thedas_ looks after your magic ass in the field."

"After, or _at_ ," Dorian waggled his eyebrows, and their foreheads came in together on a thud, both of them chuckling like two idiotic-- ...idiots.

"At, mostly," Oliver admonished, finding it too easy now that Dorian was so close he blocked out the rest of the world, the world that might cringe at his ineloquent confession to, to what? Ogling Dorian's ass? Or something more?

"And _Saviour of Thedas_ or no, you can only do so much with your bow and arrows."

"I'm rather good with my bow and arrows."

Dorian grinned, his face all hint and glitter.

"I've noticed."

 _Maker_. Have they been running missions together all this time, ogling each other _at the same time_ without noticing the other one doing it? Idiotic idiots was the right term after all.

"Dorian--"

"I'm honoured you want to keep me safe," Dorian all but purred against his lips, and Oliver nearly capitulated all over again, falling harder, but there was nowhere lower to fall to any more.

 

Oliver sighed and sagged against the sweet point of contact between their mouths, feeling his heart in his throat, wanting to meld back together but ploughing on because he had to, he had to, it was only right, because Dorian _asked_.

"I'm an egotistic bastard," he admitted plainly, watching as Dorian's brows went up, their faces so close together he almost felt the gesture. "I don't want to be away from you. I would rather you are here, behind safe walls, cocooned in your spells and books and your ridiculous Tevinter clothes, I would rather not expose you to all the awful locations where you are freezing or dying of thirst or scratching yourself raw with mosquito bites, and I can't do anything to help you because I know it's my fault, and if only I was stronger, I could, I _could_... But I can't, because I need to be close to you, so you need to come with me, and it's all I can think about, and I don't even understand it, how can I manage to focus _better_ with you around if all I can think of is you? It makes no sense, but I guess this whole Inquisition brouhaha doesn't make any sense either, and I dread the day you'll dig your heels in and tell me to get lost, that you no longer wish to accompany me to away missions because I was a masochistic asshole who took you with me all the damn time, and inadvertently gave you the best score in killed demons because you have to be there _all the damn time_ , and--"

Dorian, bless his stupidly handsome face, went from surprised to coy to bashful, a small smile appearing and mutinying into full-blossomed joy.

" _Kaffas_ , Oliver," he rasped through his face splitting the horizontal middle, eyes dancing.

"Thanks for keeping me safe out there," Oliver offered as his last, meager sign of gratitude, his swelling heart still trying to squeeze itself up and out through his throat.

"A simple _I'm in love with you_ would have sufficed," Dorian breathed, his face pressing forward as if unable to stop himself. Oliver choked down a small noise in his throat, feeling more exposed than he had when the whole courtyard stood beneath him and watched him, breaths caught, waiting to hear if he will agree to become their leader while he was wearing little more than his fucking _pajamas_.

 

It was finally out in the open.

_Your turn, Dorian._

 

A hand cupped his cheek again, fingers swiping across his stubble in an endless caress, making him feel he was going to shatter and fly apart in this cozy reading nook in Dorian's lap, wishing now that he'd still be holding onto his cider to have something boozy to swallow down right now. Something that burned more than these scorching, honeyed words and thoughts that were so heavy on his tongue.

"I'm in love with you, too," Dorian whispered into that endless, tiny space between them, buzzing with electricity that had nothing to do with Dorian's magic and everything with the fizz of their disclosures, so tiny in the grand scheme of worldly events and yet so magnanimous in the grand scheme of these same events, because now Thedas seemed even better and brighter and more important to save and protect.

Oliver whimpered, ignoring his dumb, inadequate response for now and promising to himself to work on this for the next time him and Dorian shared such intimate words, because there _would_ be a next time, oh yes, he was as sure of it now as he was sure that he will face down Corypheus with Dorian by his side and be victorious in the end despite not having a clue how to defeat him, plunging forward with such force as if he needed to cross the Hissing Wastes desert and not the inch that still separated them. They were mouthing at each other before they even came together, lips and teeth meeting in a funny clash of eagerness and hunger, something deep, so deep opening up under them, threatening to swallow them whole. Oliver had half a mind to just let go, to whatever end it lead, as long as he could hold Dorian's hand on his way there.

The chair that felt too small earlier felt even more trapping now, a comfy confinement that stopped him from sprawling Dorian underneath him the way he wanted, knowing they could go to his quarters and that Dorian would surely follow, but he couldn't move, he honestly couldn't, he _refused_ to because that would mean extricating himself away from Dorian's warmth and closeness for far too long to reach his room, and it was a task he was unable to fulfill right now, modesty be damned. His jaw nearly hurt from the deep, heavy kissing, Dorian making his way in bit by bit, powerful strokes of his tongue fluidifying Oliver's corporeal form and touching the essence underneath.

The mixed breaths between them formed a heavy, sticky air that made it difficult to focus on anything at all but at all the points through which they were in contact -- hands, cheeks, noses, mouths, hips, thighs, Dorian's right foot and Oliver's left -- making Oliver admonish that this was so much better and stronger than the forgotten cider somewhere near the chair.

He licked at Dorian's tongue with his, twining around it like a protective vice, gulping down the moan that left one mouth for the other, and Oliver keened, low, in response and understanding. His whole body was on fire, heat in high points of his cheeks and ears and groin whenever Dorian shuddered from mere kissing alone.

 

"Tell me what you want," he _licked_ against Dorian's mouth and watched how Dorian went cross-eyed, which in turn caused him to go cross-eyed as well, so for a few moments they just sat there, two idiotic idiots, tangled in the too-small chair, panting and trying to get their bearings straight, when Oliver had _another_ of those Divine Epiphanies about what the fuck went on in Dorian's mind.

"Dorian, no one's here."

"Well, Solas--"

Their voices were _so_ wrecked, _Andraste help them both._

"Is at the bottom of the tower, asleep as always, traipsing in the Fade with his spirits, having a fabulous tea party."

"That's... Probably true."

"And Fiona left."

"What about Leliana upstairs?"

"You know as well as I do that your library nook is inverted and hidden." Dorian's hand twitched, not inconsiderably, against his cheek, silently attesting to just how turned on he was. "Even if anyone could see us, it simply looks like we're having a little... _Heart to heart_ in your chair."

"That's one way of putting it," Dorian gasped, his face itching closer to Oliver's again.

"As for the sounds, well, you'll just have to be really _quiet_ ," Oliver growled and claimed his mouth again, impressed and a little bit shocked at his own verve at controlling this situation. Dorian's eyes went wide just before they closed into the kiss, his body that was slumped into Oliver's thrumming with so much need he was almost worried that keeping them quiet was an order slightly too tall.

One of his hands finally left Dorian's hair, scraping his nails across the scalp above his ear where the hair had been cropped so very short, and Dorian bucked into him, the breath between them so very wet and _hot_ , and then he dropped his hand lower, his index finger tracing Dorian's bare shoulder, making up and mapping an invisible constellation of his own on that perfect, bronze canvass, before trailing his fingers further down onto the hint of the exposed pectoral muscle.

Dorian moaned low in his throat, as if _actually_ trying not to be loud, which made Oliver's head swim all of a sudden, like he was a tiny boat on a vast ocean with the weather turning stormy, thinking of Dorian unrestricted and out of propriety's way, away from listening ears, what kind of sounds he'd be making then when stripped and kissed and touched, and he pushed an answering moan back into that sweet, eager mouth.

His other hand dropped to Dorian's lap, and he was impressed how he's managed to hold back all this time, and also on top of that he absolutely relished the turned tables in this situation; he didn't doubt for a second that if they were somewhere where Dorian felt he was in control, somewhere alone where he could show all of his predatory nature that Oliver knew existed under that tanned skin and was just asking to be unleashed, he didn't doubt for a second how the roles would be reversed: Oliver a shaking, boneless mess under Dorian's skilled hands. But as it were, Dorian was pressed into a chair in a semi-public place with half a dozen candles illuminating them and all of his beloved books their audience, letting Oliver do with him as he saw fit, and Oliver _will see fit_ _if it killed him_.

His fingers shamelessly brushed at the bulge between Dorian's legs, _Maker take all these damn straps and buckles and fabrics_ , wondering if Dorian could even feel his touch, and then he realized how fully-invested he was in finally touching Dorian, to almost having missed his response of an arched back and mouth falling open around a silently cry.

Oh.

 _Good_ , then.

He brought the heel of his palm down, cupping Dorian's cock and then rubbing at it, hand dragging, slow and heavy, up and down as he watched, captivated, enchanted, as Dorian's face went slack but his hands clung to Oliver's biceps, fingers curling around them almost too-tightly, creating bruises Oliver would proudly wear in the days to come.

His hand finally caught a semblance of a rhythm that would be of help to Dorian as he strained upwards, his hips trembling in minute, little shifts as if wanting to ground against and up and into something, giving Oliver another burst of utterly indecent thoughts of both of them naked and rutting together, voicing as much into Dorian's ear, lips and teeth and tongue accompanying the words.

 _Next time, we'll be doing this in my bed_ , he said. _Naked_. _You spreading me open before thrusting in._

The absolute filth leaving his mouth made his own head spin, and he wished to high heavens -- where Andraste and her husband the blasted Maker were perhaps looking down on them with horrified expressions what these two mortals were doing in a freaking library -- that he hadn't indulged himself earlier that day already, his hand enclosing his cock and stroking, sneaking a release while taking a bath, imagining Dorian there with him.

" _Fasta vass_ , Oliver," Dorian moaned, but the rest of it was swallowed down with a _gulp_ as his eyes fluttered shut at the images his mind undoubtedly provided, his poorly-concealed gasps a blur of hitching breaths and nonsensical sounds as Oliver still ground his palm down, down, incessantly, rhythmically, continually, Dorian's wordless admissions of pleasure spelling utter sin.

One of the candles nearby flickered and died down, reminding Oliver of their surroundings, their quiet, undisturbed surroundings, making him grin at the thought of an oblivious, grumpy Solas downstairs, probably nose-deep and absorbed in research, unaware of the sparks flying all over the round landing one floor up.

"Come on, darling," he dared to rasp against Dorian's mouth, earning himself a half-lidded look of thrill and _emotion_ , as Dorian's hand left his bicep and slid down his own torso.

"What about you?"

"No-"

"Let me take care of you, too, _please_ ," Dorian murmured and then swore under his breath again, Oliver choosing that very moment to switch rhythm and rub at him faster.

"Can't, darling," Oliver shook his head, already addicted to the word that used to hold no connotations for him whatsoever, now latching itself spontaneously onto Dorian, his _favourite misunderstood mage in the whole of Thedas_. He pressed his mouth to Dorian's again, smiling wickedly. "I already took care of myself today."

Dorian's eyes flew open but unseeing, once again obviously caught and lost in his mental theatre of mischievous imagery. He blinked hard, once, twice, several times, hips bucking up into Oliver's hot grip.

"You, Inquisitor, are my _sizzling sizzle_ ," he bemoaned around a smile so fond and raunchy Oliver swallowed hard.

"Your sizzling sizzle thought of _you_ when he touched himself," he chuckled, trying to feign ignorance but full-well knowing that they both realized how their Sizzling Sizzle and Darling endearments had equal footing in emotions and latent possessiveness. His other hand was still making small, never-ending circles on the exposed bit of Dorian's chest, and then his fingers followed the hem of the armour, slipping underneath with his nails scrapping against a nipple. Oliver was suddenly blessed with an afterthought of rare brilliance to enclose his mouth around Dorian's groan in the last moment before the other man started shaking, coming in his pants and into Oliver's palm, his world exploding.

" _Darling_ ," he whispered again, almost feverish, watching Dorian ride it out, his hands stuttering while pressed at Oliver's chest, breath erratic and shallow, his whole body taut between the chair and Oliver, muscles locked, back arched, one of the legs shaking and jumping, and then releasing, all of it deflating as if Oliver punched a hole in him and Dorian started letting out tension and air alike, melting back with an almost painfully tender expression.

 

***

 

Dorian felt boneless.

 _Boneless_.

Like that small fish Vivienne liked to eat for supper, skewering them on a fork and pretending that everything she did was just so much better than anyone else's attempt at the same thing.

It almost made him snort, knowing that he met a far better fate than any of those fish, and that Oliver, no matter how many crumbs fell and got lost in his scarf during every breakfast, no matter how many times he tripped on rocks when they were searching for a decent spot for a camp, no matter how lovely he blushed when Dorian checked, worried, on a battlefield if he was okay, he was, in all of his blustering sincerity and floundering elegance, worth tens of uppity Vivienne's and hundreds of these Asscrack castles.

He tipped his body into Oliver again once he has reclaimed the control of his limbs.

"So, you like to think of me while partying on your own?"

He knew his slow, dazed, sated grin was lewd, trying to gain a point in his own favour after being so thoroughly debauched by the _Inquisitor_ , who may or may not have admitted to being in love with him, but then Oliver leaned in, his blue eyes glittering with friskiness that promised both Trouble and a Joyride of a Goddamn Lifetime of Fulfillment, while holding his fucking hand--

"Tomorrow night, same time, my quarters. I'll _show_ you how we party in Ostwick."

  _Guh_.


End file.
